Loki knew it was his fault that she’d finally gone to the gods. He’d begged her to keep her mouth shut. Following her encounter with Angrboda, Loki had played the part of Sigyn’s dutiful husband the best that he could to mollify her. He’d stuck around Asgard. He’d lain with her, doted upon her, played with their sons. He thought it would be easy enough to keep her quiet. He’d always thought she loved him so much that she would forgive him anything.
He was wrong.
She had seen right through him in the end. He supposed it had been easy enough to pretend that he was hers alone, before she had met Angrboda face-to-face. Now there was no going back.
He had underestimated her. He had underestimated both of them.
The Aesir grew more and more enraged as Sigyn spoke, although she did not tell them what Angrboda had made her see. She didn’t tell Loki, either—she kept it close to her chest, this terrible secret that had broken her heart. She wept as she told them about the pain the witch’s unwelcome visions of the future had caused her, so no one asked her to go into detail, not wishing to distress her further.
Loki was grateful for this, at least. Because he still didn’t want to know, either.
All the gods had assembled there in Gladsheim, the council hall—and even the goddesses came in solidarity with Sigyn, though they had a meeting place of their own. As the shouting around him grew louder, Loki half wished Skadi were not off on a hunting trip with the god Ull—although he was certain that her reaction to all of this would cause the gods to cast her out of Asgard for sure. Her love for Angrboda would not allow her to stay silent.
For his part, Loki did not speak a word—although this did not stop the rest of the Aesir from attacking him, for the unusual nature of his children with Angrboda was, to them, the most frightening part of Sigyn’s tale.
“Shape-shifter. Mischief-maker. Wolf-father.”
“His antics have gone too far this time. He bred a den of monsters.”
“He probably birthed them himself.”
“Unnatural. Unmanly.”
“Nothing good can come of him.”
When Sigyn finished and the uproar died down, Odin finally spoke. He and his wife, Frigg, had sat silently among the clamor of the other gods, Frigg looking troubled and thoughtful, Odin with his expression as blank as those of the two ravens perched on either side of his chair. He hadn’t even moved, except to occasionally stroke his long gray beard in thought, and his eye had not moved from Sigyn once.
“You’ve done well to come forward with this information,” Odin said at last, in his deep, quiet voice: a voice that made even the last whispers still floating around the hall stop abruptly. When the All-father deigned to speak, everyone listened.
Sigyn nodded and bowed her head as the gods murmured their agreement. She looked sideways just the slightest bit—sad but resolute—to regard her husband in the shadows.
“You can’t do this,” he’d pleaded with her earlier. “The children are harmless—”
“It’s not the children. It’s her. I must tell them what she did to me,” she’d replied, stone-faced. “I can’t keep it in any longer. I will always be your loyal wife, but I have other loyalties, too.” Her expression had softened. “You don’t know what she made me see. Even though I don’t believe that what she showed me will come to pass, she made it seem so . . . real. The gods have to know she has this power. Odin has to know—”
“Then tell him. Only him. And leave the rest of the Aesir out of it. Odin can be reasoned with, but you know how the rest of them can be.”
She’d shaken her head. “That’s not what Freyja advised. She insisted I seek an audience with all the gods and goddesses. She said they all must know, for the safety of Asgard and all the realms.”
“And you trust Freyja’s counsel more than mine?”
“Right now?” The hard look in her eyes had returned. “I’m afraid I do.”
And in the end, he couldn’t stop her.
“So, what are we going to do about Loki’s witch-wife and these monster-children of theirs?” Thor demanded loudly. The gods around him filled the hall with their loud voices once more, and Loki’s mind snapped back to the present.
“Surely we can’t let them get away with causing poor Sigyn such anguish,” agreed Tyr. “And the children could be dangerous—”
“And surely,” Freyja said, mostly to Odin, her eyes gleaming with avarice in the lantern light of the hall, “we must investigate the witch herself. Whatever vision she made Sigyn see, maybe she knows more. Maybe she knows—”
But Odin needed only hold up a hand to silence them. He stood from the high seat, giving Loki a sideways glance.
Loki stepped out of the shadows, holding up his hands. “Brother—”
“With me,” Odin said, and left the hall. Loki followed him in silence, without looking at any of them—not even Sigyn, whose eyes he could feel on him with every step he took. As soon as they crossed the threshold into the cold night air, Loki shut the door behind them, and shouts erupted from inside the hall.
Odin led him across Asgard to his hall Valaskjalf, its silver-thatched roof shining in the moonlight. Loki continued to follow wordlessly and stood beside Odin as the highest of the gods sat down in his chair, from which he could see all the worlds. His two wolves rested at the foot of the chair, and raised their heads to acknowledge their master’s return before fixing their eyes on Loki, who ignored them.
“Brother,” Loki said again, unable to stay silent any longer. “Listen. The children—”
“I could never see her before,” Odin said. “After she escaped the burning, I arranged for the only woman in Vanaheim who’d truly mastered the craft of seid to join us. And while Freyja has been an asset indeed, there are things even she cannot see, nor the Norns who arrived in the witch Gullveig’s wake.”
Loki did not know what to say to this.
Odin sat back in his chair. “When Gullveig was reborn from fire not once but twice, I knew that she was more powerful than I’d realized. But the commotion in Asgard that ensued after the Vanir’s proclamation of war prevented me from tracking her down when she rose from her pyre the third time.” He looked at Loki sideways with his one eye, pale blue and as cold as ice. “But you found her. You knew. You knew what I sought, and you withheld it from me.”
Loki held up his hands pleadingly. “I—I knew who she was, yes, but I didn’t understand what she was capable of. I know nothing of seid, brother. She kept the extent of her power from me. Until that night—the visions come to her in sleep, she says. I thought they were just dreams.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but he hoped it would be enough to convince Odin to drop the matter.
He didn’t.
And the silence that followed his words was ominous indeed.
“It’s as I feared,” Odin said as he stood, resigned. “I thought her flight as Gullveig would have weakened her resolve, but I was mistaken. If burning her thrice wasn’t enough, how could I command her in sleep? No, it seems to me that drastic measures must be taken . . .”
“What?” Loki asked, and then a horrible realization hit him. The chanter in Angrboda’s dreams, the one she thought was Odin—she had been right after all.
“Brother, you must listen to me,” Loki said quickly. “Angrboda, she’s not—”
“Is that what she calls herself now? ‘Sorrow-bringer’? A fitting name,” Odin said, staring straight ahead.
“She’s of no harm to anyone.”
“Sigyn seems to feel the opposite.”
“She’d do anything to protect her children. Both my wives would.” That’s why Sigyn had gone to the Aesir in the first place, after all, despite what Angrboda had told her that night. “The gods will forsake you in the end . . . brother will slay brother . . . your sons will suffer greatly at their hands . . .”
“Your unnatural children with the witch are
another matter entirely. Some are calling for their deaths,” said Odin, gesturing toward Gladsheim—the distant shouts from the council hall were audible from across Asgard.
Loki repressed a shudder and puffed out his chest. “My children with Angrboda are your kin as well, by our blood oath. Killing them would make you a kinslayer, and everyone knows this to be true.”
Odin sighed and made to leave. “Yes, brother, in some ways my hands are tied. For your sake, I wish Sigyn had brought this matter to me privately. Now I must seek counsel from Mimir and the Norns.”
“Brother, please—”
But Odin was already gone, leaving Loki with nothing but cold, creeping dread in his wake.
* * *
• • •
Odin went first to Urd’s well, at one of the three roots of Yggdrasil, the World Tree. There he found the Norns—Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld, the three sisters of fate—and relayed to them Sigyn’s tale; he asked them what they knew about Loki’s three children with the witch Angrboda.
The Norns told him little, but enough.
“The mother is of a bad nature, and the father is worse still,” said Urd.
“They’ll be the cause of much mischief and disaster among the gods,” said Verdandi.
“Great evil is to be expected from these three,” finished Skuld.
“How?” Odin asked them. “How will this happen?”
But the Norns would speak no more.
So Odin thanked them and went on to Mimir’s well, which lay at Yggdrasil’s second root. Mimir had been decapitated as a hostage in the war, but Odin had smeared his severed head with herbs and chanted a spell over it, which preserved Mimir’s knowledge and wisdom within it, as well as preventing it from decaying. Mimir was Odin’s most valuable adviser; his counsel had always been unparalleled, so much so that Odin had given up an eye to drink from Mimir’s well of wisdom.
But that was a long, long time ago.
When Odin came to that very well and spoke to Mimir of all that had come to pass, Mimir’s advice was just as Odin had expected.
“You cannot slay your blood brother’s kin,” said Mimir, “but you can take them and place them where they will do the least harm.”
Odin’s eye glinted beneath the broad brim of his hat. “And the mother?”
* * *
• • •
Worlds away, the mother in question awoke in a cold sweat, horror creeping like ice into every corner of her thrice-burned heart.
They’re coming.
* * *
• • •
The next evening, Angrboda was sitting in the clearing with Hel, watching the stars, while Fenrir and Jormungand sat inside in front of the fire. Hel had not said one word to her when she’d suggested that they go outside, nor when Angrboda had grabbed a pile of blankets and left the cave. Hel trailed behind her, sat down, and bundled herself up. It was very cold that night.
Every waking moment, Angrboda fought down the panic rising like bile in her throat. They’re coming. They’re coming. They’re coming.
But she’d done everything she could think to do. Everything she possibly could. Her protection spell was stronger than ever, and no one but the only two people she trusted in all the Nine Worlds knew where to find her.
All she could do now was wait, and hope that her efforts had not been in vain.
It took every ounce of her strength to act like nothing was wrong—and for her children’s sake, she had to.
Angrboda and Hel sat there in silence for a time, and every now and then the witch rubbed her hands together to keep them warm, until suddenly Hel shifted and pulled out a small bundle of something she’d been hiding under the blankets.
“What do you have there?” Angrboda asked.
“I made these for you, Mama,” Hel said. For the first time since her birth, she seemed suddenly shy, and she handed over what appeared to be two nalbinded tubes. “They’re like mittens, only I made them different for you. I made them so your fingers are free so you can wear them while you work. There’s a space for your thumb to be free, too. See?”
Angrboda slid them on without hesitation. They were long enough to cover her second knuckle and reached halfway up her forearm, and fit so perfectly that she had all range of movement. She rolled her wrists and looked down at her hands.
“I wanted to make them perfect,” Hel said, seeming worried by her mother’s lack of response.
“They’re wonderful,” Angrboda whispered, touched, and wrapped her daughter in a sudden, smothering embrace.
“You better wear them,” Hel said loudly, squirming.
“I’ll treasure them,” Angrboda said. “Thank you.”
Hel made an annoyed sound, but Angrboda could tell that she was secretly very pleased.
“Do you see those two stars?” Angrboda asked, pointing, when they’d settled back down onto the blanket. “The brightest ones, just there?”
“The stars are all bright, Mama. We’re at the edge of the worlds. Papa says everything is brighter here.” Hel sounded extremely uninterested but climbed into Angrboda’s lap in an attempt to see what her mother was seeing. “What about them?”
“Those are Skadi’s father’s eyes,” Angrboda explained, hugging her tightly. “When he died, Odin made his eyes into stars for Skadi.”
“The gods killed him,” Hel said, ever unsmiling. “They killed him and then gave Skadi an unfair payment for his death. Papa has told us all the stories about them. I hate them.”
Then Angrboda saw Fenrir stick his head out of the cave, his ears perked up. Before she could ask what he heard, Hel turned and looked at her, and in that moment Angrboda could have sworn her daughter had the look of someone who was a million years old or more.
“They’re horrible and terrible and they break oaths and kill people,” Hel said. “I don’t know why anyone would look up to them.”
“I ask myself that all the time,” said a voice from the trees, and Loki stepped into the clearing. Gerd was beside him.
Angrboda’s heart jolted at the sight of him as she remembered her dream—remembered how Loki had felt, as though she had been inside his mind. He’d fought for her, appealed to Odin on her behalf—but had he won? Has he come to warn us, or has he led the gods straight to our door?
Hel screamed, “Papa!” and ran for him, but Fenrir and Jormungand stayed put in the mouth of the cave, glowering.
Loki scooped Hel up into his arms, laughing. Angrboda rounded on Gerd and said in a very quiet, very furious voice, “Why did you bring him here?”
“I’m sorry,” said Gerd, who was holding a skein of yarn in her shaking hands. She seemed ashamed to be faced with Angrboda’s wrath. “I’ve just brought more yarn for Hel—”
“I’ve been looking for you for weeks, Boda,” said Loki. “What happened?”
“I cut you out of my protection spell,” Angrboda said, raising her chin.
Loki looked crestfallen, and Hel turned in his arms and glared at her, appearing horrified. “Mama! Why would you do that?”
Because we don’t want him here. He thinks we’re monsters, Fenrir said from the doorway, and Angrboda was silently grateful that at least one of her children shared her opinion. When she turned to regard him, the look in his eyes told her he felt the same—he was grateful for her keeping their father away. Jormungand inclined his head, as if agreeing.
“That’s not true,” Loki said to his son heatedly.
“I knew it!” Hel said, and hugged him around the neck.
I heard you say it, Fenrir shot back, then retreated into the cave. Jormungand gave them all a spiteful look and followed his brother inside.
Gerd looked back and forth between Loki and Angrboda and said, “I’ll go put the yarn inside, then, and let you two have a moment. Perhaps I could try to comfort your boys, too.”
“I
would appreciate it,” Angrboda said, and then turned to Loki. “You, however, need to leave.”
“No, Mama, he’s staying,” said Hel, clinging to Loki.
“Gerd, would you mind keeping an eye on Hel as well?” Loki asked. “I should like to have a private conversation with my wife.”
“You’re leaving,” said Angrboda. Even if he hasn’t led the gods to us—the longer he stays, the less safe we are. “There is nothing you can say that I want to hear.”
Hel wailed and fussed, but eventually Loki ended up prying her limbs from around him and handing her to Gerd, who carried her inside.
Loki turned to Angrboda then and said, “Shall we go down to the stream?”
“Oh yes, because I have such fond memories of conversation by the stream,” Angrboda said. She did not want to go far from the cave, from her children—not after what she’d seen in her dreams the night before. Not without knowing whether the gods were stalking these very woods, searching for her. “Can we not talk right here?”
“You really want your children to overhear every obscenity you wish to spew at me? Fenrir can hear the grass grow.”
Angrboda was willing to concede this. With one last glance at the cave, she sighed. “Fine. Lead the way. But make it quick.”
And so he led her off, the same way they usually went to the stream. After all the times they’d gone there to get water, there truly existed a path now, weaving between the twisted trees. Now, at the end of autumn, the trees arching over the path were sparse and orange in color, and the moon was huge and yellow in the sky.
They did not walk as far downstream as they had the one night, for Angrboda stopped him about halfway there, unwilling to further increase the distance between herself and her children.
“Don’t you want to sit on the rocks?” he asked her.
Angrboda put her hands up. “What is it that you want to talk about? I don’t exactly have time for your nonsense. I’m busy trying to repair the damage your words caused our children. It has not been an easy task.”
The Witch's Heart Page 17